Blood on the Easel
by AneurysmIncoming
Summary: His wife is his life and he'd never cheat on her, but there are a few things he keeps from her… Inspired by The Struggle written by Scroobius Pip. Post-Canon.


**Disclaimer:** **I don't own Naruto, Naruto is owned by Misashi Kishimoto**

 **Summary: His wife is his life and he'd never cheat on her, but there are a few things he keeps from her… Inspired by The Struggle written by Scroobius Pip**

* * *

The air in the room is stifling.

His clothes are slicked with rain and while the heating seems to be on full blast, it does little warm him. His veins are ice and his heart pounds, so furious that his hands are shaking. He misses the simplicity of his wants. The night is young and he has an appointment.

He rings the bell and waits, tapping his foot to try and quell the anticipation that dwells within.

Finally the receptionist, a brunette girl who looks like she's seen it all, answers his impatient call. "You want a room?"

He stops the impatient growl before it escapes him, trying not to snap at the girl. What else would he be here for?

"I have a reservation, someone should be waiting for me."

The girl looks nonplussed for a second as she scans the list, as if there is anyone else other than him on it. He'd been careful when choosing the meeting place. This place was a hole at the bottom of the barrel, a place travellers stopped only if they had no other choice, and there sure as hell wouldn't be many who made reservations in advance.

Her mouth turns up in a sardonic grin when she reads the names. "Two bedroom suite reserved for Iruka and Deiji Umino. Here's the keys, enjoy yourselves."

He's careful not to react to the name that isn't his.

She throws the keys to him, winking as she returns to the backroom. He turns them over in his hands, careful, as if he's mulling over his actions, as if he hasn't been thinking of nothing but this moment for the past two days. _As if_.

He clutches the keys tight, his knuckles turning white and climbs the stairs to the room. The air around him is oppressive, cloying. He stops just before the door, takes a deep breath and opens it.

Behind the door a girl waits for him. She lays on her side with her naked back to him, lined with pink tresses and he sees the slight swell of her hips, the way her legs go all the way up, her lithe form wound together like calligraphy.

At the sound of the door opening, she turns slightly, and he traces the curve of her cheek with his gaze. Then, all the way, and her brown eyes widen with surprise before warming with recognition. The carpet matches the drapes. He feels himself stiffen. He closes the door and walks to the window, to gaze out into the storm. The thunder is muffled in the distance. The moon is milk-stained, peering just over the storm. Lightning cracks and the glass pane reflects the image of the girl he wished she was and the man he isn't. He feels her embrace from behind, the trailing kisses up his neck.

Her breath is hot against the shell of his ear. "I hope the you like the dye job. What are we waiting for, lover?"

Unable to control himself, his erection is painful and hard like steel, he turns and bodily picks her up bridal style and throws her on the bed. She laughs as he climbs atop of her. He's in a position of dominance and he reminds her of this, grinding himself against her supple body to mark her. She's playful and rubs back teasingly, against his clothed crotch.

God, he can't help but want her everything. He strokes her cheek before kissing her. She seems shocked at first but returns the kiss in full force. They break apart breathing heavily. He stares into her eyes before giving her a final embrace.

He grabs her throat and starts crushing. Her eyes widen in panic and she starts clawing and desperately hitting any part of her feeble limbs can reach, but there's nothing that can stop him. It's the struggle that he's been missing, all this time. The desperate fight for life before it leaves the body to still and hope to die. He watches the panic break into disbelief, shock and finally, a rictus of confusion, as if she spent her final moments not understanding what has happened to her.

He's never felt this close to someone.

He turns his hands inwards and stares. Not quite believing that he's done it. Not quite believing that he had reached this point. But for the first time in ages, he doesn't have the cloying, desperate feeling of being crushed under the weight of his own needs.

He starts cleaning up after himself. You can never be too careful, so he disposes of the body with a hunter-nin seal array in the bathtub with the knowledge that the body should dissolve by morning. He makes a shadow clone and has it henge itself into a perfect doppelganger of the girl.

Everyone will see her leave in the morning and no one will suspect a thing.

Finally, with hands shaking, he forms a seal and dispels himself.

* * *

He wakes up and has to stifle a scream.

He turns to his wife, making sure he hasn't woken her. She's still sound asleep. He slips into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Bile rises in the back in his throat and he can't stop himself. He runs to the toilet-seat and voids the content of his stomach— a homemade dinner he'd had before bed the night before.

He's shaking now, as he looks up and stares into the mirror. He can't stand how his image seems to look back at him, judging. Unable to quell the impulse, he punches the mirror and his hand bleeds, hurts, the glass raking into his skin. He covers his face with his bloodied hand and cautiously looks into the mirror again, afraid of what he might find but unable to look away.

It's broken and he sees his sapphire blue eyes staring back, covered in a bloodied mess of a hand, but in the corner of it, he sees a family portrait. The one with him, Hinata and his little babies that he cradles in his hands with a smile on his face. People underestimate the value of dreams. They may be fleeting, fickle but they provide a ceiling. Once you've reached the top there's nowhere to retreat. There is only the dark. He hides within it.

The shadow of his shadow.

The portrait is immaculate but in the depths of the mirror, there are bloodstains on the easel.


End file.
